Fire & Ice
by riane
Summary: Syd cracks. Sark plots. Both fall helplessly in... Dark SS, futurefic. COMPLETE! Thanks to everyone for being so patient. This is for all my readers.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Fire and Ice (1/12)

**Author:** riane

**Email:**

**Ratings**: M

**Spoilers/Timeline:** Spoilers from Phase One. Futurefic. Dark, dark, dark.

**Summary:** 'But she's broken now. What's left of her soul no longer needs any reasons.'

**Disclaimer:** Alias and its character are the property of J.J. Abrams/Bad Robot Productions.

**Ship:** S/V, S/S

**Feedback:** Please? I'm addicted to it.

**Author's notes:** This fic is finally complete. My heartfelt thanks goes out to each and every one of you for sending me feedback! Special thanks goes to Mnemo, Eliza and Rez for being my betas through this incredible journey, and for the talented Rhien Elleth's support.

--

He is ice.

A nod of his head and a bullet is dispatched. Grins while he kills - not because he likes to, but simply because he can. Cold blue eyes shine from a face that is ironically angelic.

He is gorgeous, and knows it. The easy swagger and confident smirk go well with bloodstained hands.

--

She is fire.

Scalding tears are her ever-present companions. Much like betrayal and grief, death and despair. Warm brown eyes backlit by an inferno, stoked by the anticipation of revenge.

She knows she was beautiful once. Before she slit her wrists .

--

'And how is our lovely Agent Bristow?'

'Released from the psychiatric ward. Suspended from active duty, but recently reported missing.'

'Ah.' Cold blue eyes glimmer with amusement. 'Sydney's gone a-hunting.'

--

They had Francie killed first. She knows that now, when it is far, far too late. Vaughn was next. Then her father.

If only her mother had died with them. It would have made things so much easier. Now she would have to kill her, too.

The scars on her wrists are a sweet reminder. Oblivion is her only hope now.

_Not yet. Not yet. _

She remembers to breathe.

--

Days before collecting the last Rambaldi artefact, Arvin Sloane unfortunately — or fortunately, depending entirely on your perspective — died by poison. His last drink was a glass of Petruse.

Sark hides a smile. He had grown tired of the old man and the order to dispatch him was a profound relief.

He is in charge of the old man's operations now. Naturally.

She will arrive soon. Very soon.

--

She hurriedly shoves what she needs into her battered suitcase and stops only to weep into her palm when she remembers Vaughn's last words.

'I'll see you tomorrow.'

Her father's are even more poignant. 'Be careful, Sydney.'

She can't remember Francie's.

--

He expects no mercy from her, and prepares himself accordingly.

The Sydney he once knew would not kill him (or anyone else) without careful deliberation, admirable hesitation, and woeful resignation.

But she's broken now. What's left of her soul no longer needs any reasons.

A cold smile dances across his lips as he cocks his gun.

He can barely wait.

--

She presses her back against the cold brick wall and opens her mouth, but does not scream.

They know she is coming.

And she does not care.

--

'Target sighted. Estimated time of arrival, one hour.'

He has been ready for two.

--

She slips into the warehouse, gripping her gun tightly, agony forgotten as she focuses on one thing and one thing alone - the man standing by the window, sunlight glinting off his hair.

Her breaths are rapid and shallow and beads of sweat glisten on her forehead. She edges closer.

She wants him to bleed.

She wants to tear his golden curls into bloody scraps and scream her wordless fury to him. She wants to punch bullet holes into his perfect form and watch him bleed to death on the wooden floor. She wants to kneel beside him and caress his face with the barrel of her gun while she waits for his last tortured breath -

'Hello, Sydney,' he says, turning around, training his gun at her.

The strangled breaths she has been holding back explode from her lips in a ragged cry, and only sheer force of will prevents her from pulling the trigger.

'You bastard,' she gasps, 'spare me the niceties. Words can't _express_ how much I despise you. You killed Vaughn and my father. Didn't you? _Didn't you?'_

Her sentence ends in a scream.

'If I said no,' he says mildly, 'would you believe me?'

She howls and lunges towards him, and he manages to wrench the gun out of her hand before she shoots him at point blank range.

That doesn't stop her.

She mindlessly throws punches at him, wanting only to _hurt _him, make him bleed. He seems to expect the ferocity of her onslaught, expertly matching her, blow for blow.

It's her unanticipated tackle that knocks the wind of his lungs as he hits the ground. She straddles him and relentlessly throws vicious punches at his face before he grips her by the wrist and flings her on her back, pinning her down.

'I didn't kill them,' he says simply. His breathing is laboured and blood drips from his split bottom lip. His expression is unreadable.

'You're lying,' she whispers, staring into his glacial eyes.

'I know who did.' He rises in one fluid motion, and proceeds to dust himself off. 'And you need my help to find them.'

She gets groggily to her feet and feels the dull ache of protesting muscles. 'I don't believe you.' Her voice isn't as firm as she'd like it to be.

He shrugs, and she is almost satisfied with his chaotic hair, rapidly bruising jaw, and bleeding lip. 'Believe what you want. My offer stands.'

He picks up her gun and tosses it at her. He walks away.

'I could shoot you,' she calls out.

'I don't think you could shoot anyone in the back, Sydney,' he replies, not turning around. 'That's the difference between you and me—' he glances over his shoulder and she catches the ghost of a smile.' —Supposedly.'

He is almost out the door when she tells him she's in.

--


	2. Chapter 2

She doesn't ask him why he wants to help. Or what the price is.

He notes this as they exchange numbers and words laced with threats and ironic promises to meet.

All the better. There is a catch, of course, but she won't know it until it's too late.

A hungry smile curls back his lips as he watches her leave.

He doubts she'll mind.

--

She staggers into her hotel room, kicks the door behind her, and falls face-down into the bed. Does it matter that she just made a deal with the devil?

Tears form behind her closed eyelids as images of blood, death, and shattered dreams launch themselves at her once again.

Of course it doesn't matter. When Vaughn died, her future died with him. When her father died, so did her past. That justifies everything.

She sits up, groaning at the churning in her stomach and the dull ache in her head. She fishes around in the drawer, and the sound of crinkling foil mingles with her soft weeping as she pops open a tablet and swallows it. Lying down, she knows that rage is the only thing getting her through this.

Sleep comes. Somehow.

The sickeningly familiar melody of her phone jolts her out of her rest. She turns heavily onto her side, reaches out for it, and shakily answers the call.

'H-Hello?'

'Sydney.'

Shit. Sark.

'Are you on medication?'

She pauses, and rolls her eyes. 'I'm sure you're aware of that, right down to the brand of antidepressant.'

He has the audacity to chuckle. 'Quite right. I only asked out of professional courtesy.'

She sighs. 'What do you want?'

'If we are to be working together, I need to keep tabs on your health-'

She hangs up, switches off her phone, and tosses it across the bed. Sark volunteering to babysit her is enough reason to get horribly drunk.

--

He curses the moment she hangs up, leaps into his convertible and jams the accelerator. He should have been more careful with his words.

Sure enough, when he opens her locked door with practised hands she's lying prone on the bed, a half empty bottle of vodka in her hand, and an opened pack of pills nearby.

'Bloody hell,' he mutters. _Great.__Just great._

'Sydney,' he says loudly, not very keen on touching her at the moment. Any other time he would be more than happy, but not when she could vomit all over him.

She stirs, and groans when she focuses groggily.

'Why are you here? Go away.'

'I'm here to remind you that we have a deal,' he replies curtly. 'And if you plan to try to kill yourself - again - please inform me beforehand.'

She sits up and he is vaguely aware of the stench of vomit wafting from the bathroom nearby. He crinkles his nose in distaste. _Well. She really knows how to lose control. _

'You heartless bastard.'

He rolls his eyes. 'At least I'm capable of walking straight.'

'I can take care of myself perfectly well, thank you!' she explodes, completely misinterpreting what he said. She takes another swig from the bottle and he, utterly frustrated by this blatant show of stupidity, stalks forward and grabs it from her.

'Drink and drug yourself to death if you want, Sydney,' he says tersely, 'just don't count on me avenging your lover and father for you.'

She stands up with surprising speed and slaps him hard across the face. Her chest heaves with what he hopes is only fury - and then she throws up on his pristine silk shirt.

He reminds himself that shooting her now is not part of the plan.

--

She feels the tiniest bit of guilt for ruining his shirt. And coat. Seeing him pull his clothes off in front of her wasn't exactly a bad thing, though. She lies on the bed, watching him emerge from the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist.

Very. Nice.

I'm thoroughly intoxicated, she reassures herself, so perving at him is perfectly okay.

'You don't happen to have any men's clothes around, do you?' he asks, managing to look extremely sexy and disgusted all at the same time.

'Course not,' she replies languidly. 'You can try mine on if you like.' She giggles hysterically at the mental image.

He swears under his breath. She notices the rivulets of water from his damp curls snaking down his muscled torso.

'Come lie down next to me, Sark,' she murmurs.

He throws her a scalding glare. 'You're drunk, Sydney. My standing here without any clothes to wear is proof of that. I doubt you'd be very thrilled waking up tomorrow - sober - and seeing me beside you.'

She laughs and she hopes it sounds sultry. He ignores her and proceeds to pace across the room. She hopes his towel will fall off.

He sinks onto the bed and sighs. She tries very hard not to reach out and touch his naked back.

'Are you sure you want to go through with this?' he asks, turning around to look at her. She nods eagerly.

'The mission, Sydney. And I'm not sleeping with you,' he says flatly.

She turns around, dejected.

'I never thought I'd see you like this,' he adds softly.

'You and me both, baby,' she giggles, sitting up and trailing a finger along his spine. He shivers, and she knows it's not from the cold.

'Sydney…'

'Yes?'

He turns around and points at the bruise on his jaw, and the cut on his lower lip. 'You did this. Remember? This—' he motions towards the bathroom, her, his lack of clothes, 'is madness. Go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning, and you can continue despising me.'

She pouts and lies down again. 'Fine. Your loss.'

She falls asleep thinking of various ways to get him drunk.

--


	3. Chapter 3

_Cruel Sydney._

He watches her as she shifts restlessly in her sleep.

_So cruel._

--

She wakes up with a splitting headache.

The sunlight streaming through the window momentarily blinds her, making her whimper and squeeze her eyes shut. A variety of luminous shapes dance behind her eyelids, adding to the cacophony inside her skull.

She rolls on her side with a grunt, and makes an attempt at sitting up. Groggily, she presses her trembling palm on the mattress and gets to her shaky feet -

Only to keel forward, right into his waiting arms.

'You really should rest a while longer, Sydney,' he says, his face utterly serious. 'You were drunk last night.' He pauses. 'Extremely. Drunk.'

'Let go of me!'

'Very well.'

He releases his hold on her waist and steps backwards. She wobbles before gripping the bedpost for support.

'What the _hell_ are you doing in my room?'

He tsk-tsks, shaking his head. 'You don't remember do you, Sydney?'

She tries desperately to regain equilibrium so she can sock him in the jaw again, if only to wipe that smirk off his face.

'Get out,' she hisses, 'I'm not in the mood to humour you.'

'You certainly were last night,' he chuckles, and she knows she must have done something incredibly stupid. Now if only she could remember what it was. She presses her hand over her eyes, fighting the urge to cry. Could things possibly get any worse than this?

'If you don't mind,' she says slowly, 'just—leave me alone for a while. Please?'

She readies herself for another verbal sting, and looks up in surprise when there is none.

'Drinking won't take the pain away,' he says softly, a hint of annoyance - and something else - in his voice.

That does it.

Tears flood her eyes (sympathy, from _him_!). She slowly makes her way to the bathroom. She's lost her lover, her father, her best friends, and—now—her dignity.

Of all people to see her at her weakest, it had to be him.

She strips her clothing off with trembling hands and steps into the shower. The blast of cold water makes her teeth chatter and her entire body shake, but she stands still, weeping softly.

_It hurts._

The freezing cold chases away the fog clouding her mind, but does nothing for the ache in her heart. She shuts off the water, clumsily pulling on the white bathrobe. _Don't want him to see me like this. _She huddles in the corner of the bathroom, resting her forehead on her knees, rocking back and forth. Whispering a lullaby to herself, she wonders if her mother sang that to her.

_Mother…_

Another stab into her lacerated heart. Another shadow to darken her dreams.

She hears him slowly open the door.

She struggles feebly as he lifts her in his arms and carries her outside, setting her gently on the bed.

'You're staying with me,' he says simply, while he towels her hair

'You're insane,' she replies.

He traces the line of puckered flesh along her wrist with his fingertip, before meeting her gaze.

--

Their agreement, this time, is wordless.

He sees to it that her sparse belongings are transported safely to his current location.

He notices that sunlight turns her dark hair into burnished copper.

--

She says nothing as he shows her into her room.

'I hope this isn't too bright for you,' he says. A little smile quirks her lips. Sunlight bathes the entire room in liquid gold, spilling through the many windows.

Everything seems surreal, from the soft white carpet under her feet to his fathomless blue eyes. She wanders in, touching the cream wall, spilling the silk covers through her fingers, finally standing by the large window, pressing her fingertips against the cool glass.

'This isn't real, is it?' she whispers.

Silence.

She turns around.

'It's as real as you make it,' he replies, before closing the door.

--

He watches her toss and turn while she sleeps. The surveillance cameras are a necessity given her fragile state of mind, but he finds himself spending an inordinate amount of time at the monitor.

Tonight, she bolts upright, gasping. She covers her face with her hands, shoulders shaking briefly. She falls back to bed after a few deep breaths, and tries to sleep again.

He trails a finger down the screen.

--

She wakes up to the familiar feel of sticky tears on her cheeks. The feel of silk against skin is new, though. Realisation seeps through her consciousness as the morning sun warms her skin.

_Oh. _

She remains tangled in the sheets, seeing the daily miracle unfold before her eyes.

She tries to forget that Vaughn loved to watch the sunrise with her.

She swings her legs over the side of the bed, standing up and stretching, pondering the strange turn of events. She pads to the bathroom, finds her toothbrush, wonders what the mysterious Mr. Sark has in store for her.

_If he really wants me dead, he's had enough chances. _

A knock at the door widens her eyes. She splashes cold water on the last vestiges of sleep, dries her face, hurries across the room. Is she wearing anything embarrassing?

She opens the door. He's perfect, as always: white teeth, blue eyes, expensive suit. She feels hideous in comparison.

'Yes?'

'Good morning, Sydney.'

'Morning.'

He smiles serenely. She blushes, furious at her self-consciousness.

'When do we start?' she says quickly. When did she ever care what he thought of her?

He smiles. 'You're not ready.'

_What? _

Anger extinguishes every other emotion. Her fists clench. She speaks through gritted teeth. 'It's been more than a year since they died. And who the hell are you, to tell me I'm not ready?'

He shrugs. 'Any assassination requires a high level of control and dedication. You were incredibly drunk two nights ago.' He pauses. 'Among many other things.'

She feels her nails bruise her palm. 'I'm ready.

His eyes sparkle. 'Prove it.'

--


	4. Chapter 4

_One step closer._

He waits patiently outside her door.

--

Furiously, she tosses her towel on the floor and tugs on her jogging clothes. She slams the door shut behind her, arching an eyebrow at him.

'Well?'

He chuckles. 'Follow me.'

Three right and four left turns later, he motions towards an enormous gymnasium.

'This,' he says simply, 'is where I train. After you.'

Marvelling at the sheer size of the hall, she steps in gingerly, knowing that all the equipment before her must have cost a fortune. She catches him smirking at her approval, and groans inwardly. Of course he's filthy rich.

'Please proceed to the middle of that blue mat over there.' He shrugs off his coat, placing it carefully on the ground.

'Afraid you'll ruin that?' she smirks.

'Hardly.'

His eyes ice over. She exhales.

'Begin.'

She throws the first punch. Big mistake. He anticipates it, smoothly deflecting it with his open palm. Furious, she lashes out with a kick that was supposed to connect with his chin. He ducks and his smile makes her want to throttle him.

'Is that the best you can do?' he asks, and she hates herself for succumbing to fury. She breathes in deeply, willing her anger to subside.

_Focus._

'Stop talking and fight me,' she snarls. Surprise flickers across his face. He moves in with a punch aimed for her jaw. She sidesteps easily at the very last moment, kicking him hard in the abdomen. He grunts in pain but is quick enough to avoid her determined punch. A well-timed kick knocks her off her feet and sends her sprawling on her back. Gasping, she rolls out of the way—his punch barely misses her. She leaps to her feet, panting and ready for more.

More fast kicks and vicious punches. Some hit him, some don't, few seem to seriously unsettle him in the least. His blows are muted—she can tell­—and it enrages her. Blinding frustration disorients her and she knows she's getting careless—where is he? Too late. Pain shoots up her arm as he twists it behind her with practised ease and pushes her onto her knees. His breath is warm against her ear.

'You're not ready, Sydney.'

_Breathebreathebreathe__ breathe._

He releases his grip and she falls on all fours, gasping. Sweat drips from her chin. Polished black shoes step into view.

'Now what?' she says grimly, picturing various scenarios. Packed suitcases, maybe. Plan B. One-way ticket to limbo.

'Breakfast,' he replies simply. Steady hands help her up.

She's too damned tired to protest.

--

He offers her a towel and ointment for the bruises. She takes the former and brusquely declines the latter. He expected just that, and the sullen anger that radiates from her.

'Not all is lost,' he quips. 'A bit of training and—'

'Save it, Sark.'

He suppresses a smile.

--

The dining hall is huge.

He makes his way to the head of the long mahogany table, where breakfast is already served. She walks stiffly in the opposite direction, intent on sitting as far away as possible from him, but he grasps her by the wrist and pulls her along with him.

'No running away. Sit next to me—please?'

She scowls, not bothering to whip her hand away. His fingers feel distractingly smooth.

When he's not trying to kill her, that is.

'Are you afraid of catching some contagious disease?' he asks mildly. 'I assure you, Sydney,' he smiles, sitting down, 'I'm perfectly healthy. You could take my word for it, or see—'

'Oh, be quiet.' She sinks into her cushioned chair, sighing.

He motions towards the food. 'I trust you'll enjoy breakfast?'

The heady scent of good coffee wafts from her cup, the omelette looks delicious, and so do the jam tarts, scones and the slice of apple pie.

'Looks decent enough,' she says, prodding cautiously at the omelette with the ornate silver fork.

He bursts out laughing - uncharacteristic, and almost…charming.

'I'll be sure to send the chef your compliments.'

'Whatever,' she mutters, trying very hard not to smile.

--

Small talk has never been so momentous.

He makes her laugh by the time she's halfway through the omelette.

--

'What an incredible waste of time,' he comments.

'What is?' She dabs at her mouth with the embroidered napkin

'All those years fighting each other. If I had known breakfast conversations with you would be this enjoyable, why, I would have given up my evil ways and joined the CIA.'

She chuckles. 'I've saved you the trouble, haven't I?'

He touches his chin, nodding thoughtfully. 'Thanks for that. I don't think I could cope with offices that bland.'

Laughing, she knows she should be horrified by the entire situation.

She isn't.

--

He remembers to be gentle when she brings up the topic of revenge.

'How do you know…how do you know who killed them?' Her voice is steady, but he knows what lies behind the pseudo-calm.

A maelstrom he plans to harness.

'I have my sources. All reliable, of course.' He sips the last of his coffee.

She nods, and the movement is awkward. He watches her slowly tear her gaze away, tightening her hold on the napkin.

'Will you—will you help me find them?' So softly he can barely hear it.

'I mean, it would be fine with me if—' She stops. Takes a deep breath. 'I would really appreciate your help with the mission.' Her voice breaks off and she forces herself to look up.

He maintains his steady, cool gaze, but she looks away, sighing softly.

'Forget I asked.' She pushes her seat back and gets up quickly. He's out of his chair and standing behind her before she can move any further.

'It would be my pleasure to work with you,' he says softly, 'Agent Bristow.'

She turns, and he sees the surprise on her face. After a moment, she says simply, 'Call me Sydney.'

A smile—utterly unreadable—and she's gone, jogging down the large corridors.

He sits back down, satisfied, and slightly unsettled.

_Phase__ one, complete._

--


	5. Chapter 5

Something changes after their breakfast together.

A quiet, barely perceptible hum rises to her bones, veins, flesh. Seeps into her dreams. Jars her into wakefulness.

She ignores it. Naturally. Brushes it off as nerves. Impatience to avenge her loved ones, perhaps. Trouble adjusting to her new surroundings, maybe.

Nothing to do with the cool blue eyes that haunt her now.

Absolutely nothing_._

_Lies._

--

'How much longer till Derevko gets suspicious? Very well. Excellent work. Call me if the need arises.' A soft sigh, and his eyes are ice again.

'Derevko' to all his minions. 'Irina' to him alone. He's destroying their bond of trust—or whatever you call it—through his manipulation of her darling daughter, but no matter.

His thirst for revenge is stronger than Sydney's.

--

It is an impossibility, she decides, to remain indifferent to a man who makes seduction an art.

He smiles at her in the morning and cordially extends an invitation for their first training session together. She smiles back, fully aware that this is another one of his stepping stones.

'Shall we?' he asks, extending his hand.Two can play at this game_, _she thinks, determined not to lose.

'How sweet of you to offer your hand,' she smiles, lightly caressing his cheek, 'but we're only training, Sark.' His eyes widen for a split-second at her touch—_take that—_but he chuckles, recovering just as quickly.

'If you insist.'

She walks beside him as he navigates through the maze of corridors, raking him from head to toe when he isn't looking. The t-shirt and casual pants almost make him look like an innocuous college student, and not the classy assassin that he is. Either way, he's still gorgeous.

_As usual._

'How are you taking to your new surroundings?' he asks, maybe growing uncomfortable in their silence. She tries not to smile.

'Very well, actually. I haven't thanked you for my room, yet, have I?'

He smiles. She could get used to seeing that. 'No, you weren't quite yourself, at the time.'

'Well, thanks for the room,' she replies quickly—why open up an avenue for sympathy when she wants none?—'the view's great. An unobstructed view of the sunrise and sunset is hard to come by.'

'You should see the view from mine,' he says softly.

Her heart beats faster than it should.

--

He slides the glass door open, steps outside, and watches her calmly follow his lead.

'The air's good here,' he says, breathing in the fresh, crisp scent of ocean, dew, and sky.

She shrugs, and her nonchalance impresses him—she won't give in to him without a fight.

'So…when does the training start?'

He sits down on the ground, motions to the spot in front of him.

'Now.'


	6. Chapter 6

Somewhere in the Pacific.

He tells himself everything's under control.

_Lying again, Mr. Sark?_

--

The days are longer now, she notices.

_Empty._

It's been six days.

--

Realisation does not dawn, he concludes. It slaps you across the face, chokes the air out of your lungs.

_What have I done?_

--

Six turns into sixteen, and she's running out of pills.

--

What he wanted: Hurt her, the way she hurt him, when she killed Allison.

_(Hired hands did the dirty work, but _he_ was the one who signed their deaths on cool, smooth cheques.)_

What he planned: Seduce, and then gut her.

_('Sydney, dear?__ You're bedding the man who killed your lover. __And your father.')_

What has happened: The inevitable.

_(Needing her; hurting her; losing her—trapped in the vicious cycle of pain upon pain upon pain.) _

--

She hears a car pull into the driveway.

The novel drops from her hands as she leaps to her feet. He walks through the front door, casually handing his coat to the waiting butler. Walks to the kitchen. Pours himself a glass of wine.

_Look at me!_

He doesn't.

Did she really expect him to do anything of the sort?

_Stupid Sydney._

Anger takes over soon enough. She heads for her room and slams the door shut. What the hell did she expect? Courtesy? From him? Why does she even bother staying, when her so-called _mentor_ disappears for weeks on end? She could easily hunt down the killers without his help—walk out of this place, out of his life, out of this twisted mind-game—

—never see him again.

She sinks her face into her hands.

_I can't—I can't take it anymore._

--

His hands are trembling as he stands outside her door. It's taken him hours to summon up the nerve to speak to her. So much for running away. A single glance at her was enough to vaporise those weeks of almost-calm.

He knocks.

The door opens almost instantly.

'Yes?' She's angry. He can tell from the tone of her voice, the coldness in her eyes.

'How have you been?'

'I'm out of pills,' she says flatly.

'I'll make the appropriate order,' he replies smoothly.

She shuts the door in his face.

Torn between frustration and—_despair—_he turns the knob and tries to force the door open.

She opens it again, furious. 'What do you want?'

'Why did you do that?'

'Why do _you _care?'

'You don't slam the door in someone's face!'

'_You _don't ignore someone after being gone for weeks!'

She's as shocked as he is. She snaps her mouth shut, wide-eyed, and attempts to close the door again, but he shoves it open.

'Sydney—'

'Don't. Say. Anything.'

Anger drains from her face as she closes her eyes.

'I'm tired, Sark. So damned tired.'

He nods slowly, before saying hesitantly, 'Are you—are you hungry? Dinner's served.'

--

She walks behind him, so he can't see her rub furiously at her rapidly blurring eyes.

--

'How was your trip?' she asks.

_Terrible._

'Fine,' he lies.

Awkward silence ensues.

'I don't have to stay, you know,' she says quietly.

He freezes. _God no_—

'No. We do have a deal. And you're - rather nice company.' He smiles. Somehow.

He talks about the weather, and sees darkness in her eyes.

--

Before her world ended:

_What're you most afraid of, Syd?_

_She traces her finger down his cheek. _

_Losing you._

After:

That makes her fearless now, doesn't it?

Haunting blue eyes regard her with far, far too much understanding.

She's never been more afraid in her life.

--

Before his world ended:

_Promise me you'll get me out of this madness, so we can start our own life. _

_He kisses the lips that aren't quite hers—the wonders of scrambled DNA—and nods._

_I promise._

After:

That makes him a liar. Failing to extract her was the biggest mistake of his life.

He wonders if falling for Sydney tops that.

--

Sleep doesn't come easily.

It never has, she muses, ever since he died.

_Which one?_

Danny. Noah. Vaughn.

Dad.

_Incapable of holding love, or undeserving?_

Hot tears seep into the silk sheets. Replaying their deaths, in exquisite detail, is painful beyond belief, but succumbing to that stormy-eyed blond…

_Even worse._

--

He's learned to suppress the memory of her death. Some things are too painful, even for him.

Irina—gifted in everything imaginable, including hypnosis—owed him that much, at least.

But tonight, he delves deep, needing the pain. Anything to jolt him out of this waking nightmare.

_Blood, broken glass, two women sprawled on the ground—_

_Allison! No—don't die don't you dare die on me Allie, Allie, no, Allie—_

_Her last words: Kill…her_

_Irina__ stops him from pulling the trigger. _

The smell of her blood and the taste of her tears are fresh in his mind.

_Allie…__forgive__ me…_

Exhausted, he drifts into sleep.

But his dreams are filled with Sydney.

--

Early morning. Sick to death of bawling over lost lovers and fathers, she decides to take it out on _him._

'Hey, Sark.' Time to release some tension. She can think of better ways, but—scratch that.

'How about some sparring?'

He looks up from his newspaper. 'I beg your pardon?' He's smiling, but she can see the shadows in his eyes.

She knows the feeling.

'You heard me.' She pushes her empty plate away, gets up, places her hands on her hips. It feels good, taking control.

He chuckles, and follows her lead. 'If you insist.'

'You're going to have your ass kicked,' she says casually, flicking her hair over her shoulder. No response. She glances at him, and he's smirking. He meets her gaze, and she feels that gnawing ache again. _Damn. Focus._

'Any last words?'

He laughs.

Exhale.

He throws the first punch. She side-steps easily, kicking him _hard_ in the stomach. His grunt makes her smile. He recovers quickly, and they trade kicks and punches with vicious speed. 'Is—that all—you've—got?' she laughs breathlessly, drunk on adrenaline. A fist to her stomach and a harsh whisper, 'Hardly.' She gasps—not only from pain—and her kick connects solidly with his chin. He stumbles backwards, and another kick sends him sprawling on his back. She straddles him, pinning him down with her weight and sheer force of will. He can easily throw me off, she thinks—if he wants to. Painfully aware of the growing, spreading heat in her body, she shifts slightly; no need to complicate things further. A muffled moan. Not hers.

'I think I bruised your jaw again,' she says, still panting. He nods, also fighting for breath.

'Yes—you did.'

This is the part where she gets up.

'Told you I'd kick your ass.'

Still panting. Both of them.

'Yes. You did.'

Breathless Sark. She likes it.

Slowly, she shifts back down to that compromising position. His eyes never leave hers. She's very much aware of something else, now. _Quite sure he is, too._

'I had no idea you liked sparring that much, Sark,' she says. He chuckles.

'You have that effect on me.'

_Oh really? _She presses her weight down a little more. Another muffled moan. Definitely not hers.

'Sydney—' Serious eyes, serious tone. '—this mat may have many uses, but comfort has never been one of its better qualities.' She laughs, thoroughly enjoying this. Another determined grind of her hips and he's gasping.

'My bedroom—' he starts.

'No.' She smiles a little. 'Mine.'

--


	7. Chapter 7

—_Don't stop—_

_I won't I can't—_

_Almostalmost__—_

_Syd-ney__—_

_Yesyesyesyes__—_

—slowly sinks her face into the curve of his neck. Her delicious sigh, warm against his skin. Frantic heartbeats slow in unison—

—he whispers her name, hears her soft chuckle. He's drowning in her scent, her taste, her touch, overwhelmed—

Afraid_._

He decides that now is a good time to embrace oblivion.

He can't live, needing her this much.

--

Once, she would have wept, remembering Vaughn.

But she finds solace in his arms.

--

His phone rings.

He groggily answers it, gently cupping his hand over her mouth. She licks his palm.

'—could you repeat that?'

Her body shakes with suppressed laughter, and he hopes she can't tell that it's her mother on the line.

--

'You're not going anywhere, are you?'

He caresses her cheek. 'No.'

'Who called?'

He hesitates.

'I understand,' she says softly, averting her gaze. She sits up, and he touches her elbow.

'Sydney, it's work. Just—work.'

She chuckles mirthlessly before heading for the shower.

He decides that waiting for her would only hurt him more.

--

She's not exactly angry, but not exactly euphoric either. They fought. Then they f—

_No._ It wasn't mindless.

She'd always wanted him, if only to crack that damnable indifference. Was that it?

Salve for her bruised ego? A little consolation, after her run of hellish luck?

He's gorgeous and sensual and he wanted her more than he'd cared to admit. Why—

_Damn it._

Dissecting the experience is definitely not helping. She'll settle on despising him for putting work above—whatever was between them. For now.

'Sydney.' She looks up from her novel.

'Yes?'

He looks tired, and she pretends she doesn't care.

'The people you're looking for. I've located them.'

She jumps to her feet, trying not to notice the lingering ache in her limbs.

'When are we going?'

He slowly rakes his fingers through his hair, and she reddens. Her hands were a lot more insistent.

'Tomorrow. Get some rest.'

'Okay.' It amazes her: how gauche she feels, and how lost he looks.

'Sydney?' he says. Softer, this time. 'I need to tell you something.'

Her heart freezes over. _Don't hurt me._

'I—lost somebody too.'

She says nothing, too stunned to respond.

He turns around and leaves before she can hold him.

--

He watches the rhythmic crashing of surf on sand.

_I'm drowning._

Someone's knocking. Could it be…? _No. Stop hoping._

He opens the door.

'I'm sorry,' she gasps between kisses, breaking his indestructible heart.

--

'The view _is _better from your room,' she says wryly, lifting her head from his chest. He chuckles, and she's relieved.

They shower, and she helps him check their equipment.

The irony of the situation doesn't escape her.

Once, he was the enemy.

--

She is silent throughout the plane ride. He wants to offer comfort, but he was the one who shattered her world.

He feels her gently squeeze his hand.

_Oh, Sydney..._

--

Assassins taking down assassins. All in a day's work.

They make a good team, she smiles to herself. The element of surprise is on their side, and it's painfully easy.

Two names, two faces. She kills both. Sark knows better than to interfere.

He helps to scrub the blood from her hands.

--

'Come with me, Sark. Don't stay in the car.'

'Sydney, I can't. I shouldn't. I don't think—'

She sighs, and rests her forehead against his. 'Please come with me. I can't do this alone.'

He swallows.

She slips her fingers through his as they walk to the cemetery. He doubts he can hate himself any more than he already does.

She weeps at the graves of Michael Vaughn and Jack Bristow, and tells them that they are avenged.

--

'So,' he asks her quietly, 'where to now?'

She laughs nervously. 'I—I'm not sure. After they died, all I wanted was to hunt down the killers and make them pay.'

'You've done that.'

'Yeah, I have. I guess.'

Silence. The soothing sound of the tides makes it more bearable. He's not touching her, and she wants to know why.

'Sydney—'

'Yes?' she replies, too eagerly. _Tell me you need me. Tell me to stay._

He turns his face away from her. 'If you need help packing, let me know. My driver can take you to the airport.' He stands up, shakes off the sand from his jeans, and walks back to the mansion.

She tells herself that she won't cry.

--

He sits heavily on his bed, sinking his face into his hands.

_No more lies. No more._

--

She's not crying; she refuses to.

Some strange combination of grief and stubbornness stops her. She packs mechanically, her door wide open, daring him to witness her dry-eyed indifference.

_Beyond tears._She'd always thought the idea a little ridiculous. She cried for weeks after Vaughn and her father were killed.

Now she's losing Sark. Now she understands.

She knows now, what it feels like to be eviscerated. Few live to tell the tale.

A polite tap on the opened door, and that cultured voice again.

'Sydney. Are you ready to go?'

She nods, wondering if he's as mutely devastated as she is. Noticing his bandaged knuckles, she numbly acknowledges that he is.

Violence works, too, when tears are impossible.

--

_This is the only way._

He sits a fair distance away from her on the ride to the airport.

He's a fool for following her this far. Staying at the mansion would have made things so much easier, but he wants to—he wants to say goodbye. As ridiculous as it seems.

He wanted to see some sort of reaction from her—some sign that she cares. Her stoicism fuels his grief. He has to remind himself that he's entirely to blame.

Maybe he's hoping for a word, or a glance, at the very last minute. _Or maybe I just like pain._

They pull over, and he braces himself. She's out of the limo faster than he is, and he watches her lug her suitcase out.

'I'll carry that for you,' he offers.

'No,' she replies. 'Thank you.'

'Very well.'

The truth finally registers. Once she boards that plane, she's out of his life.

_Forever._

'I'd better go,' she says softly. 'I don't want to miss my flight.'

'Goodbye, Sydney.' _Don'tgodon'tgopleasedon'tgo__—_

She hesitates, kisses him gently on the cheek.

'Thank you,' she whispers. She even manages to smile before she walks away, and he—_oh, god—_

'Wait,' he gasps, reaches out, turns her around to face him. 'Promise me—promise me you'll be okay.'

Her face crumples. 'I can't.'

'Please, Sydney, promise me—' He's begging he can't believe he's begging—

She shakes her head, and he knows she's fighting back tears. 'You don't want me to stay.'

'That's not true!' he cries.

She stares at him, open-mouthed.

'I need you,' he whispers at last. She drops her suitcase, and he's kissing her before he can stop himself. He's drowning again, in her scent, her taste, her touch—

Reality can sink in later.

--


	8. Chapter 8

The first few days after her return to the mansion were perfect.

Moonlit strolls along the beach, star-gazing on cloudless nights, evenings curled up in front of the fireplace…

She tries not to wonder when everything will fall apart.

--

Irina's getting suspicious.

'Yes—I'll get to that as soon as possible. I'm—' He glances at Sydney and her smile slowly fades. '—busy, at the moment. Yes. Everything is under control.'

'Work?' she asks. He nods slowly, avoiding her gaze. He isn't looking forward to another Bristow interrogation.

'Ah.'

She looks away.

'Sydney—'

'You don't have to explain anything.'

'I—wasn't going to.'

She shrugs. 'Then everything's fine.'

He hesitates 'Are you sure?'

She crosses her arms and stares out the window. _._

'It's your turn,' she says softly.

Fighting to keep his cool, he makes his move—strategy, it's all about strategy—

—inadvertently leaving his King wide open.

'Checkmate.'

Her eyes are grim. He knows the end is drawing near.

--

He wisely avoids her for the rest of the afternoon. Her sanctuary: his vast library, filled to the ceiling with books.

She reads. Endlessly. It's how she fills her time, now that suicide attempts and revenge are no longer on the agenda.

The words on the page fade in and out today. Coherency's lost in the midst of troubled thoughts. Trust, betrayal, love, hate—all separate and distinct, to everyone but her. She wonders why she even bothers. _Keep it simple, Sydney._

Sighing, she shuts the book and slides it across the smooth oak table. She wants to trust him. Foolish, she knows. She also wants him to trust her. Even worse.

He's admitted that he needs her. What else could she possibly want from him?

_Everything._

That's what his lover was to him, she thinks, torn between sadness and jealousy. Her death must have wounded him so deeply, he can't bring himself to—

_I lost someone too._

She guiltily banishes Vaughn's image from her mind. He's gone now. He would've wanted her to be happy.

_Are you?_

Close enough. Still, she could do without his increasingly odd behaviour. Adoration and aloofness, randomly spread across the week. A strange emotional lottery that only he's privy to.

She tries to be remote too, pretending that his erratic indifference doesn't hurt her. The chessboard confrontation being a prime example.

But it's all an act, in the end. Give her enough time and she'll crack all over again.

She slips into his bedroom later that night.

She'd like to think their bodies express what their words cannot say_._

--

_Beautiful Sydney._

He watches her as she sleeps.

_How will this end?_

He closes his eyes against the grief and holds her tightly, before letting go.

Abandoning her so early in the morning shouldn't matter. But he knows she'll feel it, knows it'll hurt.

He has no choice.

All she has to do is smile at him, and he's hers. Entirely. He can't afford that. Hence his feeble attempts at remaining distant. Clumsily done—_so much for tact_—but he tells himself it's necessary. He has to tell her the truth, eventually. He has to let her go.

_I can't…_

--

When she wakes up, he isn't there.

_And?_

She curls up, blinks back tears, and makes up her mind.

--

He prepares himself for the worst when she sits beside him. It's a wonder she hasn't snapped yet, at the rate he's wreaking havoc on her emotions.

'Hi.'

He manages to smile back.

Silence.

She shifts slightly, curling up so small he can tell she's hurting, wraps her arms around her knees.

'What was she like?'

Her voice is so soft he can barely hear her above the breaking surf.

He can't bring himself to speak. _Is this why she's—does she think it's because—_

'A lot like me,' he says quietly.

'Oh.' How one syllable can carry so much pain is beyond him.

'You still love her, don't you?'

She's jealous. Of Allison.

Silence is the only thing that keeps him from shattering.

Slowly, she leans against him.

'Sydney—'

'Shh. Can I tell you something?'

He nods.

'I've noticed that—you've been a little…distant lately.' She coughs, and he knows she's trying not to cry. 'You can tell me what's wrong.' Her voice drops to a pained whisper. 'You can trust me.'

He can't bear to look at her. He knows what he'll see in her eyes, love and trust only a _fool_ would betray and he wants it he needs it but he deserves—

Nothing.

--

'Sark—wait! Don't go—'

She pulls him back down again, her grip vice-like around his wrist. He keeps his face turned and it _hurts_—

'Look at me,' she says slowly, through tears and gritted teeth.

He tries to and flinches, turns away again, distraught, annoyed and confused all at once.

She rubs wearily at her eyes.

'Forget it.'

She lacks the strength to stand up, stalk off, and make a spectacular exit. He doesn't make it easier by suddenly pulling her close, his arms tight around her.

'Will you—make up your _mind_?' she gasps.

'I'm undeserving,' he says softly.

'I know you're not a saint,' she says sharply. Her face softens. 'I'm happy with you—the happiest I've been for a long time—so don't feel guilty about your past.'

He looks positively stricken now. She touches his hand.

'_Will _you tell me what's wrong?' she whispers.

No response. No hope. No point. _Too tired to run, but how can I stay?_ She turns away—

—only to have him gently slide his palm along her cheek, drawing her into a kiss that tastes too much like goodbye—

'Nothing's wrong.'

He smiles, to her utter relief, and looks a little surprised himself. 'Not anymore.'

--

He decides that he'd much rather live this lie, than let her go.

--


	9. Chapter 9

She wakes up the next day and he's solid and warm in her arms, his cheek resting in the curve of her neck. Smiling, she gently kisses his rumpled curls. He stirs. She melts as he lifts his groggy, blue-eyed gaze.

'Happy now?' he yawns.

'Very.'

He chuckles, low and husky, and that's enough to make her want him again.

'I don't want to get out of bed.'

She giggles. 'I won't if you don't.'

'Sydney, darling, you're insatiable.'

'I know. Can you blame me?'

He shrugs and smiles smugly. 'Hardly.'

She rolls her eyes, laughing. 'Unfortunately,' he adds sadly, 'I have work to do. The sooner I get it over and done with, the sooner I can see you today. And we know what that means.' He growls comically, and she grins.

'Speaking of work, have you officially quit the CIA?' She grimaces.

'Oops.'

His turn to laugh. 'Well you'd better get to it. You are going to leave, aren't you?'

She nods. 'Yes. Don't try recruiting me, sweetheart. I've had enough of the adrenaline rush. For a while.'

'I understand.'

'You're going to try, anyway, aren't you?'

He grins.

'Incorrigible.'

'It's gotten me this far.'

'Oh really?'

It takes him a while to leave the mansion.

--

_I will _never _let her go._

Ruthless, cunning, brilliant—he knows he's all this and more. He exploits all his talents, stretches himself to the limit, races against the clock. Irina is no fool, and he has much work to do. The hazy, euphoric weeks have unbalanced him, and she _has_ noticed.

Issuing orders, dispensing bribes, pulling the right strings and cutting the useless ones— nothing must come between Sydney and him. The thought fuels his frantic pace. He's silenced many men loyal to Irina, men who refused to be part of his merciless deception.

Their twisted valour touches him. Their deaths are quick and painless.

—Sinking to the depths of depravity to salvage something he believes is entirely pure—

_Whatever it takes._

--

She greets him at the door, kisses him lightly on the mouth, asks him how his day went.

'It was fine. Yours?' She grins, and describes her latest foray into the world of pottery. He laughs and tells her he'll make the appropriate orders—and replacements.

This should be such a normal scene, but there's blood on his expensive suit.

'You're hurt.' Her voice quavers a little. He shakes his head.

'It's not mine.'

'Oh.' She steps away from him, not meaning to, really, and he catches her gently by the hand.

'Don't dwell on it.' She nods mutely. His incandescent smile is worth the reminder that she's been making love to a murderer.

--

He mentally kicks himself for being so careless. Of course she would notice the blood. His eagerness to see her again rendered years of training useless, and that worries him. Immensely.

She sleeps beside him, murmuring occasionally, making him smile. He tenderly caresses her smooth cheek. Allie never did talk in her sleep, through sheer force of will. She said it was dangerous for people like them—

He stops cold, pulls his hand back.

Sydney is not like him. Not the way Allie was.

He rubs tiredly at his eyes. _Stupid._ Why is he even drawing comparisons? He seriously doubts Sydney does the same with him and Vaughn. Both lovers belonged to a different time. When things were less frantically complicated.

Allie was a partner in a world where there was no trust, no love, no affection. A harsh existence, but it was one they both chose. At least, to some extent. They gave each other mutual, wordless comfort. It was only after she was killed that he realised how much he loved her. Rage and grief drove him nearly insane.

With Sydney, it's different—love runs so deep it frightens him. He's confessed he needs her. Her offer of trust cut him to the bone.

Sighing, he gently tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

It won't end happily, if they remain within Irina's reach. Minimising any chance of either woman discovering the truth is challenging enough, but as long as Irina knows where he is…

She mumbles something about burning the toast.

He makes up his mind.

--

'Going again?' He nods, faintly apologetic.

'I'm sorry, Sydney.' Closing the distance between them with long, graceful strides, he sits beside her and gently takes her by the hands.

'Things have been exceptionally busy lately. A few more loose ends to tie up, and I'm done. Permanently.'

She pulls back, surprised. 'You're planning to leave?'

He nods solemnly, and she's speechless. He's leaving his life behind. For her? 'I didn't know I would disrupt—'

'I know you're not comfortable with the idea of me…doing what I do. Please come with me, when I leave all this behind.' He turns his face a way, takes a deep breath, meets her gaze again, and smiles crookedly.

She's never seen him so anxious before.

And rightfully so. Betraying Irina Derevko is never a good idea. She pictures their future together: ephemeral—everything. Identities, friendships…happiness?

She traces the perfect line of his jaw with her fingertips.

'We'll be on the run for the rest of our lives, won't we?' she says softly.

He blinks a little, and the mask she hasn't seen for so long freezes his angelic features.

'Yes. Unless you can find a better alternative.' Cold face, cold voice. He's not touching her.

_I didn't mean it that way_—but anger is always easier. Far easier.

'There isn't one, is there?' she replies coolly. 'That's the life we'll be forced to lead. Always looking back over our shoulders, jumping at every shadow—'

He shakes his head, chuckling, but his icy eyes hold no mirth. 'Don't you realise Sydney? This is the life you were born into. Regardless of who you spend it with. You know what's in the shadows. You're rightfully afraid.'

'I wasn't, at one point in time,' she says in a fierce whisper. 'And I was _happy._'

He fixes her with a chilling, azure glare that tells her everything she needs to know about complacency and happiness.

Knowing full well what he's implying, she rises, heads for the window, blinks back tears.

'Why are we arguing?' she asks wearily.

But when she turns around, he's gone.

--

He's furious.

He thought she'd be happy. Thrilled. Ecstatic. He'd expected all sorts of responses to his disclosure, but not that_._ Not sadness. Disappointment. Fear.

Does she even realise the sacrifices he's made? The hours he's put in? The time and effort and bloodit's taken for him to secure their relative safety?

_Of course not. Then she'd really hate me._

If only she knew how difficult this madness is for him. Being infatuated—_not love, not love, not love—_with the woman who killed Allie is betrayal enough. Giving everything up for her is another issue altogether. If everything goes to plan, she'll never know his inner torment. Despite being with her, he'll suffer alone.

Perhaps this pain is penance for his innumerable crimes, his worst being the cold-blooded murder of her father, and lover. He shuts his eyes against the harsh truth that not too long ago, emotionally disembowelling Sydney was the driving force of his existence.

Exhaustion threatens to overwhelm him. He knows it's reckless to continue when he's stretched so thinly, but he's too close to completion. Irina barely calls him anymore, and that can only mean one of two things. He's either successfully misled her—

Or she's preparing to pay him a visit.

--

She stays awake all night, waiting for him.

Two a.m., and he's still not back. Pacing the room, she forces herself to stay calm, but vivid images of missions gone horribly wrong refuse to go away. He's always told her if he would be gone for more than a day, but he didn't today—for obvious reasons.

Logic provides cold comfort.

Frantic with worry and almost sick with regret, she wishes, for the millionth time, that she had kept her mouth shut. _The man's willing to give up his way of life for you!_

She has her make-up speech planned in advance.

What she wants to say: I'm sorry, I was just afraid. Of the future. It is frightening, don't you think, especially with a madwoman like my mother hot on our heels? But she'll soon get tired of us, I hope, and then everything will be okay. Relatively. We'll be together, that's what matters.

She doubts she'll stick to the plan. Overwhelming relief tends to render her incoherent.

It's then, as she stares out into the dark of night, that she realises the bitter truth.

Living without him?

_Impossible._

--

He sleeps in snatches.

Brief slips into oblivion, punctuated by nightmares. His distress is obvious now—he rarely dreams.

The mission is easy enough; get in, secure a business deal, get out. Unless the esteemed chairman refuses, in which case, leave no survivors.

Simple, really.

Flanked by four bodyguards, even in his exhausted state, he's sure everything will go smoothly.

Unfortunately, he leaves the compound with a bullet in his arm, and only one man by his side. He detonates the bomb with relish, watching the building go up in flames.

He laughs sadly, wondering what Sydney would say.

--

She dimly hears the main door open, and it jolts her out of pseudo-sleep.

He walks slowly through the door, looking so haggard and pale she gasps and scrambles to her feet—

Smothering him with kisses probably isn't a good idea, but she does it anyway, giddy with relief. Choking him half to death with a ferocious embrace makes him gasp a little. He gingerly shows her his bandaged arm.

'You were shot,' she says flatly.

'An occupational hazard,' he replies, smiling crookedly.

She bursts into tears.

'Sydney? Sydney, I'm alright, the bullet's out, I just need to change the bandage, and get some painkillers.' He gently wraps his arm around her waist as she weeps helplessly.

'Come with me. I'll show you my very own pharmacy. Lots of very useful things in there.'

She nods, still crying, tired, so tired of all this. He soothes her with gentle words and an equanimity only he could possess. He could have bled to death from the bullet wound, and she's the one breaking down.

She finds herself in an unexplored portion of the mansion, and dazedly memorises the access codes he punches in. _Force of habit._ The door slides open, and he chuckles at her sharp intake of breath.

'This isn't a pharmacy,' she says. 'This is enough for an army.'

'That's the idea,' he whispers into her ear.

Row upon row of medication fill the massive room. Syringes, tablets, capsules, stacked, organised, meticulously categorised. The blinding whiteness of the walls and sterile air add to the imposing sight.

She scans the row to her right, and cringes. Most of those substances are used only for interrogation.

He sits on a nearby stool, fresh bandages on the table. 'I'll do it,' she says quietly, gently unwrapping the bloodied dressing. He grits his teeth against the pain.

'Done. Careful, now.'

He smiles faintly. 'Much better. Thank you.'

'You're welcome. Just don't get shot again.'

He chuckles. 'Not a problem.'

'You have to eat something,' she exclaims, grasping his hands. 'Are you hungry?' He shakes his head.

'I'm exhausted. Too tired to eat. I'll just sleep.' He looks at her with exaggerated solemnity. 'As in _sleep_.'

She giggles, slipping her fingers through his as they walk to the bedroom. 'I take it I'm forgiven?'

He kisses her fingertips. 'There's nothing to forgive.'

'That's so clichéd,' she says tremulously. He smiles at her.

'We could use a few.'

She slides under the covers with him, nodding in agreement. He falls asleep almost instantly. She chooses to stay awake, perfectly content with simply watching him. Her heart aches at the exhaustion lining his handsome features, and she wonders how much of his weariness has do with her—

Well. Maybe she will sleep.

Moments away from sweet oblivion, she hears him mumble something that freezes her blood.

'Allie.'

--


	10. Chapter 10

At breakfast, she's a little distracted.

'Is everything okay?' he asks gently, resting his hand over hers. She flinches, to his surprise, then smiles weakly.

'I'm fine. Sorry. I'm just a little—'

'Nervous?'

She nods, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. 'We leave tomorrow morning, don't we?'

'Yes, if all goes to plan. We'll fly by private jet.' He proceeds to describe their flight path to Latvia. Her features relax. She's heard it all before but detail is soothing, to people like them.

--

She kisses him goodbye and watches him leave for his final, Derevko-directed mission.

Shutting the door, she closes her eyes and shudders.

_Allie. _

Alicia?

Alice?

Allison—

_No._

She won't think that. 'Allie' could mean a thousand things—his mother, maybe?—none of which have to do with the woman who was exactly like Francie—

Except for her soul.

Trudging wearily to the beach, she gets the feeling that she's lying to herself.

Again.

--

'Yes, everything's going smoothly. Yes—thank you.'

He shuts the phone and gives a small sigh of relief . Compliments from Irina are hard to come by, this one being no exception.

Knowing better than to be lulled into complacency, he focuses his energies on completing this last mission.

Because tomorrow, he's leaving everything behind.

He owes Irina that much, at least.

--

The rhythmic breaking of the surf does nothing for her increasingly frazzled state of mind.

Instead of sitting calmly on the beach, she paces—incessantly. None of the scenarios she imagines seem particularly appealing. If she brushes off his sleep-talking episode, she'll always wonder who exactly 'Allie' is. Asking him directly might put him on the defensive. Lies come too easily to them. She can't bear another.

_What if…_

Sitting heavily on the soft sand, she stares out across the ocean.

What if 'Allie'really is Allison Doren? What then? Trained assassins of Sark's calibre don't talk in their sleep, she thinks darkly—unless there's a very good reason to. He was exhausted and recovering from a bullet wound…maybe that lowered his defences.

But what was he hiding, to begin with?

_Stop. __Thinking._

A small, frustrated moan passes her lips. This can't end happily. She knows it. Following that line of thought would inevitably lead her to the circumstances that brought her here in the first place and she doesn't want to think about that because—

—_nothing_ makes any sense.

But, like everything else that happened, she's dragged into it. Quicksand.

Sark offered to help her avenge the deaths of Vaughn and her father—without naming a price.

And now they're lovers.

_Wonderful coincidence_.

Except in their world, there's no such thing as serendipity.

She takes a deep breath, but it doesn't slow her frantic pulse. The thought of him planning all this, deliberately taking steps to win her trust—

—brings her to the next painful question.

_Why?_

Why go through so much trouble? What does he want out of this? She desperately hopes that his need for companionship was his only motive, but she knows that can't possibly be true. He's gorgeous, and any woman would want him.

What's so special about _her_?

Bedding the boss's daughter? Is that it? She laughs sadly. _Doubt it._ Irina's relationship with her only complicates things.

Sleeping with the enemy? For thrills? _Maybe._ But the adrenaline rush has worn off, and he's still with her. To put it lightly. _Think: Latvia. __Kissing his old life goodbye_.

And how does Allison Doren fit in all this?

The way he whispered her name…

_Allie_.

A whisper. Tinged with so much regret.

_And something else_.

Only lovers speak each other's names with such reverence.

_No._

_It can't be—_

_No. __Nonono__—_

Blinded, she stumbles towards his pharmacy.

--

'What is Derevko's current location? Yes. Very well.'

_Perfect._

As expected, an important meeting in Venezuela should keep her busy. Oil barons and the like tend to be…difficult.

But Irina is persuasive.

--

_Senseless_—

She tells herself this as she shakily punches in the access codes and slips into the vast white room. Her hunch couldn't possibly be true. Sark and Allison couldn't have been lovers.

_I killed her._

Which leads her to the logical conclusion—Sark wants revenge.

Suddenly, she doubts the events surrounding the deaths of her father and Vaughn.

Sickened, she turns to the row she once flinched at. Her trembling fingers hover over the syringes, tranquilisers, and sodium pentothal.

_Only one way to find out_.

--

He coughs over the sink, blood trickling down his chin.

No bullet wounds, this time.

No survivors, either.

Irina will be pleased.

--

She packs her belongings and glances at her watch. Anxiety makes her restless and fidgety, and her fingernails are bearing the brunt of her nerves.

He should be home in a few hours. She has until then to decide what to do.

Option number one: Forget anything happened. Go with him in the morning as planned, and take it from there. Live the lie—assuming there is one.

Option number two: Use the truth serum and get the facts out of him. If it turns out to be nothing, she'll have to apologise for her brusque methods, but she's sure all will be forgiven.

If the worst comes to pass—

She knows the way to the airport from the mansion. The keys to his motorcycle are in her backpack, and her passport and ticket to Indonesia are ready.

_I can't—I can't leave him_.

She trembles a little but forces her anguish back. This is not the time for weakness.

_Focus_.

Seduce her unsuspecting lover, and uncover the truth.

She's reminded of another woman who used her charms to extract information.

_I'm not my mother_.

She's not so sure anymore.

--

He rushes home.

Thisclose to freedom. Or at least, a semblance of it. Never mind the bitter truths that will remain unsaid, he can live with that. Her continual presence in his life is what matters. Latvia, first, then Vanuatu—they'll get used to the travelling. Whatever it takes.

They will never attain normality. He doesn't want it. Doesn't need it. Waking up beside her is his only desire.

That, and not bumping into Irina.

The lies will accumulate, a leaden weight on his tainted soul. He can think of ways to lighten the load. Sydney will never know the truth.

He pauses outside the heavy oak door.

One day—they might even be happy.

A violent twist of the doorknob, mirrored by the pain in his heart, and he steps inside.

She smiles with heart-stopping sweetness.

_One day_.

--

She wonders how she will pull this off.

He steps out of the shower, smiling boyishly at her, all damp blond curls and guileless eyes—and she's a heartbeat away from weeping. Her very own Adonis.

Watch her make him bleed.

'Put some clothes on,' she smiles, barely hiding the cracks in her voice.

'Why?' He looks genuinely puzzled.

'So I can take them off.'

He laughs, shakes his head, and indulges her.

She gestures to the beautiful candle-lit dinner before them. Courtesy of a butler with an eye for detail, and her wicked, scheming mind. She pours the wine, but he doesn't know that his glass is laced with drugs. Tranquilizers. Mild enough to escape his notice, but strong enough to take effect—

Once they're done making love.

_The usual_.

He sits down, takes a sip, and smiles appreciatively. Correctly labels the year, even. She chuckles, and her heart breaks a little more.

They talk softly over the tinkle of silverware. The steak is delicious. The wine, even more. He's almost emptied his glass.

Nearly normal. Most lovers don't have a syringe loaded with truth serum in the top drawer—

She won't think about that right now.

'…really, so we'll have plenty of time to get to the private jet.'

Blinking a little, she focuses. Right. Their eventual flight out of insanity, into normality. Their version, of course.

Except that would involve getting through tonight.

Mission objective: Do not fall apart.

'Sydney?'

Narrowed eyes, but not from suspicion. Concern. She's leaking emotion again. _Stupid_. She puts down the knife and fork, gets to her feet, seizes him by the collar and proceeds to kiss him—frantically. That way, she can't cry.

He chuckles into her mouth and returns the favour, and she can tell the drugs are already working. He's usually a lot more restrained, this early. Slow and luxurious, that's how he makes love. Not tonight. Look at where his hands are.

'You're so beautiful,' he murmurs reverently, setting her down on the bed, and she discovers she can cry, after all. She chokes back a sob because he's still so tender, even in his drug-induced haze.

He mumbles something about how lovely her dress is—then slips it off her, tossing it carelessly on the floor. Banter helps grief too, so she says—and does—the same with his clothes.

His skilful touch burns her flesh, and she deliberately stops thinking.

—she cries out first, then he joins her, hurtling into oblivion.

Sweet, sweet, nothingness. His scent, warmth, the feel of his arms—

For now, she can pretend that tomorrow, they're starting a new life. Where Sark loves Sydney, and Sydney loves Sark.

He whispers her name, and she's back on earth again.

Too drugged to notice, too tired to care, too blissful to suspect—he's easy, easy prey. The needle slips into his arm and she's done the deed. He jerks sluggishly in response, and his eyes widen. Shock. Betrayal is next, she's sure. _Who tricked whom?_

She's still entwined with him, still feels his warmth, and uses that, and her weight, to her advantage. Straddling him has never been so strategically important, and it makes her sick.

Her hands on his chest now, and she leans down, forcing herself to remain calm.

'Who is Allie?'

He tries to struggle but can't, and that is torture in itself, because what elite assassin can bear losing control over his finely-tuned body?

'Allison—Doren.'

She can tell from his eyes that he's fighting a losing battle.

'Was she your lover?'

She's crying now, she can't stand it anymore. Was it real, for Allie and him?

The longest pause, and she can't bear to ask him again—

'Y-Yes.'

His voice breaks like shattered china, and so does her heart.

One last question.

'Did you kill my father and Vaughn?'

'Sydney—'

Desperate, helpless, pleading—

'_Did you kill my father and Vaughn?'_

Anguish and agony flood his eyes. He closes them.

'Yes.'

_Yes._

_Yes._

_Yes._

She knows she should get the hell out of there, she's just made love to a man she ought to have killed—but she sinks her face into his neck and weeps. He's whispering something, his voice positively straining with desperation, but she's had enough untruths for today.

'You win, Sark.'

She kisses him one last time, and decides against telling him that she loves him. It wouldn't make a difference, anyway. He whimpers her name.

Another needle into his arm, and he's out. Completely. For the next few hours. It should buy her enough time.

She disentangles herself, and knows she'll never feel whole again.

Gently, very gently, she draws the covers over him. Smoothes his unruly locks. _So beautiful._ She kisses his forehead.

And so, it ends.

She showers, desperate to rid her skin of his scent. She doesn't need another reminder of the sweetest, most painful mistake of her life. Her waking up alone from then on is penance enough.

She guns the engine, blinded by tears.

Maybe if she's lucky, she'll end up wrapped around some lamppost.

--

Like all calamities—it only keeps getting worse.

When he finally regains consciousness, he staggers out of bed, frantically pulls his pants on, stumbles out of the room, down the stairs—_SydneySydneySydneyohGodno_—

Only to see Irina Derevko, eyes blazing, striding through the front door.

'You have been—' she hisses, grasping him by the chin, '—a _very_ bad boy.'

--


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I truly am sorry for the horrendous wait! Thanks for all your kind reviews and your patience. Special thanks goes to Rez, for kicking my ass back into gear ;)

_Numb._

She wants to be that, more than anything. Empty. Unfeeling. 

She is anything but that. Anguish is leaking out of her pores. 

_So much for love.___

The flight will be a long one.

*

Irina is brilliant at torture.

No instruments needed. The anticipation of her vengeance is enough.

'—extent of your betrayal is unfathomable. Can you even comprehend what you've done?'

He doesn't reply. Too busy reminding himself that she is not Sydney. Their uncanny resemblance is unfortunate, given the circumstances. 

'I—I have to find her.'

A smile curls her painted lips.

'Penance, first.'

*

She throws her suitcase onto the wooden floorboards, kicks her sandals off, flings the shutters open, and sinks into the thin mattress. 

_Broken.___

*

Irina is kind enough to allow moments of sweet, morphine-laden oblivion. 

They punctuate the madness.

'Done?' he rasps.

She smiles. 

*

_Tired.__ I am so tired._

*

Two days, and still no leads.

If he could walk, he'd pace the room.

*

Two choices:

Live alone.

Die alone.

She weeps.

*

Progress, at last.

The doctors advise him against travelling. 

He boards the next flight to Indonesia. 

*

She pays the lady behind the counter for one last day.

*

Turbulence and torture are not a good combination. 

He retches into the toilet bowl, then shakily grips the side of the sink, gasping for breath—

He won't start thinking about how he gutted her.

*

Little cuts at first. The razor is sharp, her fingers steady, and her intent clear.

*

Into the sweltering heat—

He hopes it's not too late.

*

_I'm dying._

She's sure of it. Hopeful, even. What's left of her is bleeding out the cuts on her arm. 

Betrayal, deceit—

_Love?___

She laughs, then chokes on tears and blood.

*

He finds her twisted amongst blood-soaked sheets. 

—only to feel the cold barrel of a gun pressed into his neck.

'Thank you for locating my daughter.' 

A cruel blow to his head, then—

Darkness.

*

Even on the brink of death, she had a feeling that things still wouldn't go to plan. Botched suicide attempts bring out the cynic in her.

_Wonderful.__ I survived._

'Sydney.'

_And look who paid a visit…_

A perfectly manicured hand caresses her pale brow. To her credit, she doesn't flinch.

'I truly am sorry for your loss.'

_Vaughn? Dad? __Sark__?_

She can't even laugh. Too damn tired. 

'I too suffered losses.' 

_That_—that she can respond to.

'What do you know of loss?' she rasps, finally turning to face the abomination otherwise known as Mother.

'Everything.' 

Silence. Downcast eyes and a semblance of grief say enough.

_Oh God. _

 'What did you do?'

*

He knew it would come to this. 

It was—as with all things linked to Irina Derevko—only a matter of time.

_Poison.___

That's what Irina was to him, right from the very beginning. Slow, sweet poison, flowing through his veins. Marking his days.

How fitting, that she would choose that means of dispatching him. 

And how typical of her, to place him in the hospital ward next to Sydney's.

_Sydney__—_

_No. _

He won't think of that. He won't think of her. Not while the last image he has of her—_brokenbleedingohSydneySydneymylove__—is burned into his skull. The slashes on her flesh a mute testimony to his betrayal._

He forces his thoughts, instead, to the previous scene—

_'You know why this is necessary, don't you __Sark__?' she says softly, gently slipping in the needle. He nods, and almost smiles. Even in his last moments, she is bent on instruction._

_'Very good.'__ She sighs, and fondly touches his cheek. 'You always were my favourite.'_

_His heart tightens inexplicably. He blames it on the poison._

—and closes his eyes.

*

'No. No—'

Despair chokes her—_he can't be—_

'He has five minutes left to live.'

She freezes.

_Ah._

'Poison,' she says flatly, meeting her mother's steady gaze.

Irina nods.

'You've taken his life hostage, and in exchange for the antidote, I have to do your bidding. Correct?'

Another nod, and a faint smile.

'You always were very perceptive.'

She laughs bitterly.

'And you always were very ruthless.'

Irina shrugs. 'It's the nature of the game.'

'No,' she hisses, 'it's _your _nature. Stop acting like this is some kind of business transaction. Give him the antidote. Now.'

Painted lips lift into a sardonic smile. 'Very well.'

*

The receding haze of blazing pain can only mean one thing—

_Redemption.___

—And one person.

_Sydney__?_

'Look at me.'

Her voice. So much like her. Broken, and full of pain.

Slowly, he opens his eyes.

_So beautiful.__ And so sad._

'Thank you,' he says softly. He ripped her to shreds, and what does she do in return? Exchange her freedom for his life.

She shrugs, then looks down at her hands.

'She'll be back in an hour.'

'Okay.'

'I just wanted to check on you.'

'Okay.'

'I'd better leave you to rest.'

_No questions? No accusations? No screams, no tears?_

She rises to leave but he grasps her by the wrist.

'Wait. Don't you—don't you—'

He struggles for words. He was expecting _something_—from a crying fit to physical violence—but not this. Not indifference.

'Don't I care?' she whispers softly. She shakes her head, and laughs softly. A tear trails down her cheek. 

'I did, once. And it almost killed me.'

He lets go.

*


	12. Chapter 12

'How is she?'

Irina smiles coldly. 'I've sent her on a mission.'

He closes his eyes. 'In return for my life.'

'Very clever, Sark.'

--

One week later, and he's finally well enough to stand up without passing out again.

She's still not back yet.

'You will tell me if something happens,' he says quietly.

Irina chuckles. 'Have more faith in my daughter. She's better than you give her credit for.'

--

She's back.

'Here's your goddamned artifact.' She throws a silver cube the size of her fist at Irina.

It clatters to a stop at her painted toe-nails.

'Now am I free to go?'

She picks it up, admires it, then looks carefully at her daughter.

'Very well. You're free to go. Your belongings have been packed.'

Sydney nods.

'Aren't you going to say goodbye to your lover?' Irina asks, quirking her lips into a sad smile.

'I don't have a lover,' she says flatly, with empty eyes.

--

He stands outside her room.

'Sydney,' he whispers, when she steps out.

'Don't talk to me,' she says quietly.

'Please let me apologise.'

'For what, exactly?' she snaps. 'Killing the people I love? Letting me live a lie? Leave me the hell alone, Sark.'

'Sydney, please.' He grabs her by the hand, and she slaps him – _hard _- across the face.

'I said, leave. Me. Alone.' She spits out each word with bitter, forceful deliberation.

He watches her leave the mansion, and walk out of his life.

--

Irina comes to his bedroom that night.

'It's a shame she no longer loves you,' she sighs.

He chortles mirthlessly. 'Why Irina. It's not like you care.'

She sighs, and sits beside him. 'Oh, I do Sark. I do. Like I said. You always were my favourite.'

'Prodigal son?' he asks bitterly.

She smiles, then trails a painted nail across his bare chest. 'Yes.'

He shivers.

'But only by day.'

--

He knows that he should be horrified by this turn of events.

But Irina can be fickle.

He pretends that she's Sydney.

--

'I have to find her.'

Irina laughs. 'Oh, darling. She doesn't want to be found.'

He gets up, pulls his clothes on.

'It's futile. You'll only get hurt.'

'Irina. Please. I beg you. Release me. I love her.'

She sits up, twirling a thick lock of hair.

'Very well. But what will you give me in return?'

'Loyalty. I may never work for you again, but I will never cross you, Irina. You have my word, and my life.'

A slow smile creeps across her crimson lips. 'Very well.'

'Goodbye, Irina.'

He hesitates, then kisses her, one last time.

--

He does his best to track her down. Surely, decades of criminal activity should help.

But Sydney is better.

She always has been.

--

The closest lead he has points towards Bali.

So he packs his bags, revises his Bahasa, and sets off, his heart pounding in his throat.

--

He rents an apartment, melting in the sultry heat.

It's a stab in the dark, but he shows a black and white photo of her to the motel owner.

'Have you seen this woman?'

The grizzly man squints, picks up the photo, turns it around, then nods vaguely.

'_Semalam_,' he grunts. '_Cantik. Sedih bangat._'

Yesterday. Beautiful. Very sad.

'Where is she now?'

The man shrugs. '_Maaf ya.'_

Sorry.

--

He sighs, almost sick with grief and anticipation. So yes, she is at Jimbaran, which is a good start.

There are four more hotels she could be at.

He begins the search party for a woman who wants to disappear.

--

His heart breaks a little more, with each well-meaning comment by kind hotel owners.

_Cantik. Sedih bangat._

One more hotel to go.

--

He can't believe his luck. When he steps through the glass doors, she steps out.

'Sydney,' he whispers.

'Sark.'

She looks faintly surprised. Which is much, much better than furious, angry, or betrayed. Or all of the above.

'What are you doing here?'

'Looking for you.'

They step away from the entrance. His heart is pounding so hard he can barely hear himself speak.

'Sydney, I am so sorry. Tell me what I can do to make things better, and I'll do it. I swear.'

She sighs, then closes her eyes.

'You can't bring them back.'

He swallows. 'No. I can't. But I'm still here.'

She covers her mouth with a trembling hand.

'Yes you are.'

He sinks to his knees.

'Sydney. Let me love you. Let me love you.'

He carries her to his bedroom. They make love beneath the moonlight.

--

Normality is a luxury they cannot afford.

They settle for days free of bloodstained hands, broken teeth, and shattered dreams.

They throw away their cell phones and passports.

--

The first week felt strange.

Gradually, the instinct to bolt wears off.

--

They move to Spain.

--

France.

--

Tokyo.

--

New Zealand.

--

He flips the pancake on a plate, and adds a dollop of honey and whipped cream.

Little Ebony tugs at his shirt. 'Daddy, I want another one.'

'Sure thing, honey. Does Mummy want one too?'

'Yes please.'

--

'I love you,' she whispers.

He smiles.

--

_THE END_


End file.
